Maes Hughes
by Cheeze and Gritz
Summary: Actually, when I think about it, the weather is perfect for visiting a graveyard.


**MAES HUGHES**

This dreadful, awful, weather, it looks like it going to rain today. It was-IS- too early for this. The day was just starting, isn't the phrase 'rise-and-shine?' The irony of it all makes me physically and mentally ill. It's not fair, it's never fair. Nothing I wish for willingly feeds the bristling barrier of emotion called 'my happiness.'

I crudely fold my arms and lean against black patted car seat, rumpling my blue uniform. My eyes look forward at military driver and his black hat. I try to occupy my eyes with the back of his head, but inevitably they both change direction to the front window.

Ugly, everything was ugly today. That's the best word for today's torrent in the sky- or the best and _only_ term I could chant in my head that turned and fit correctly- and it was sad to watch. Ugly and soggy grey, as though the cloud was lacking sleep and so sourly grumpy that would be DANG to be going through its mood alone. It was completely unkempt and ungrateful for today. They should be VERY grateful to only have one responsibility, which is basically float there and soft. I wish I could float there and be indubitably soft and not worry about things, or stuff, or junk, or mess, or poop(I've never sprouted into the ritual of cussing excessively) and unknown thing-a-majiggies

I close my eyes to keep from looking at anything; Out of sight out of mind.

I am acting childish. I know this; I'm twenty years old, and I should accept the inevitable. And in a way I have, but just today anything negative just befuddled me to become irritated. I guess this is my spoiled way of getting what I want from events I have no control over. Maybe, if I fall out on the ground and have that followed with incoherent livid words and feet and fist banging, God would let up. That, or strike me down.

Anything to make the sky smile for me and my causes for traveling out.

My feet un-rhythmically to sound of wheel against paved gravel. Something rubbery brushes against my cheek, I know what it is, but I ignore the gesture. The gesture, arrogantly, strikes again. Then again, again, again, -and for the heck of irritating the hairs off my eyebrows- and it did one more time.

As though I was training to be the next kendo material arts wonder, like I would see so much in picture shows at the film theater (which I absolutely have grown really fond of), I grab the flimsy neck of the rubber fiend. "Hey, cut it out." I threatened the object using the intensity of my emerald eyes to get my point across to inanimate thing. The motion of the vehicle made the offender smack into my face rubbing against my chestnut bang.

I idly rear slightly back and punch it in the face and it bowled backward against its color coordinated brethren. And as if its squeak was an ignition for war, all of them bounce against the window and they all attack, as aggressively as water filled helium balloons could attack. I've never fought in war before, but I felt ready for this. I prepare for, what it was, this idiocy that my whirled imagination considered as "war."

Red, orange, and then yellow charged first, followed by green, blue, and purple.

I, weakly, kept punching them all and made noises that sounded like a trapped animal. But, these insufferable balloons kept coming back with more force.

"gnugh!" punch "nugg" punch "ugh!" punch "raawr! Ghug! Ugh! Nunununah!"

I take back about me acting childish; I think I insult to children everywhere by what I am portraying at this moment.

"Major, please." I hear, there was no malice just coveted frustration.

I instantly halt and could feel an array of mortification scatter all over my cheeks; my face instantly twists into emotion that came across as 'guilty child being scolded at.' I clasp my hands in my lap and bowed my head to await further punishment. Because, I know, how I was acting wasn't acceptable, especially for a Major.

"I mean no disrespect, sir, it's just I don't want any of those balloons breaking and turning the back seat into a pond"

I straighten up and beam an embarrassed smug smile that, arrogantly (though not meaning to), showed a realization of forgetting that I outranked him tremendously. I think he was irritated by this. I bend my left arm upward, close my gloved hand into a fist, and use the knuckle of my pointing finger to tap against one of the balloons, "no disrespect at all to me, the only person you would be disrespecting is the alchemist who constructed these balloons." I face turns from embarrassed to enlightening, "they alchemized these balloons from pretty strong material, so much so, that my feeble attempts wouldn't be able to phase these babies," I snatch the blue balloon by its face and put in front of mine, to weirdly distort my features, "plus there's not that much water in each one of these, so it wouldn't make a pond, per se, but fill a bathtub. You see?"

"Yes..sir"

He didn't, of course he didn't. I'm sure he quickly recalled his rank and added the "sir" to show how 'not disrespectful' he was trying to be. I sighed mordently noticing the color I chose to showcase to the driver. Blue, great, what an awful choice; it wasn't a regular blue either, it was a sickly dark 'ugly' blue, the kind of blue that was used to show eternal sorrow. _And_ I put that up to my face, to show sickly color to the officer, as though I was giving him free passage to look into my soul. I wasn't spiraling down in an 'eternal' hole of damnation, but my sadness was still idling waiting for that day.

Who was I trying to fool? I pushed the balloon aside, set my elbows on my knee and let my palms capture my cheeks. I know he could feel my angst I've been trying to mask since waking up this morning. It, slightly, frightens me that could possibly read through me so easily.

I tried not to seem bothered; I want to seem happy, beaming with life not matter where I go. I know I always try to portray that in the office, but I see I can't even fool the driver. Has everyone been able to read me that easily all this time and just went with my charade?

I guess I've been fooling no one but myself.

I groan the groan of confused graduate wondering what was next in life, covered my face with my hands, letting my mind wonder to dark places that I shouldn't. Maybe, all this time I was blaming the wrong thing for my mood. It's easy to blame something that will never object to what might be an obscene truth.

Actually, when I think about it, the weather is perfect for visiting a graveyard.

* * *

><p>I tell the driver to leave, adding an elongated speech in why he had to and why it would be a waste to wait for me, which he appropriately thought he should stay for. I somehow turn the explanation into an over-dramatized soliloquy, and when I was thru it seem as though he felt he couldn't depart fast enough. Because as soon as I said "you may disperse," I blinked and there was already torrent of pipe smolder over three hills onward.<p>

"He must be in a hurry," I shrug. I scoop up my balloons, which were tied to their own individual mini sack full of pebbles, and a black brief case I lugged with me from home. I go up the familiarized walk through many, many, many military tombstones.

I halt at tomb I typically stop at on this day "Hey Mrs. Jackson, you know I still haven't shared your recipe for your 'Sunshine' biscuits" I grin, bending down and snapping open my briefcase and drawing out a yellow tulip, Mrs. Jackson loved yellow tulips. She would always express to me it meant 'happy thoughts.' I save some in my room when the season derives about for them. "You know you can visit my dreams anytime and tell me where you hid the paper for them, I promise not to tell." I fixed it on her grave on top of some former florets.

Mrs. Roswell Jackson was the wife of one the cherished Generals in West City. It seem as though she weaseled herself in to be a component of the military (or at least a close follower, encouraging from the sidelines), by how she journeyed providing special baked goods to the households of military men and women. I guess, it eventually became a hobby for her to do so, I never thought about it much when I was a tike, but now I muse that solidified reason was just a way to escape the lonesomeness that arose with being the wife of a high ranking pooch of soldierly. But, even so, when General Jackson deceased she kept delivering, supplying, and arriving to military homes and dropping off a basket of goods.

When I think about it now, when General Jackson died not only did her traveling upsurge but so did her love for yellow tulips, she actually embroidered yellow tulip shaped fabric to ALL her shirts. It was as though she would always drive herself to have happy thoughts after his death, and it never came naturally. It depresses me a little when I think about it.

But, Eventually she too passed, but since she was so close stitched with military The Führer ultimately decided to get her buried with the rest of the fallen soldiers next to her husband, which I thought was well deserved.

I bow, pray my respects to her resting soul, and purge on to who I came to see in the first place. I hear the screams of dead and fresh grass under my onyx colored boots; I look up in the sky hearing tiny rumble thunder warning everyone nearby that he is close to crying and ruining any activity for anyone who was outside and didn't want to get wet.

My mood has gotten, slightly, better when I sat there in the car and sulked at the fact that I might be a naturally horrendous actress. But, then I start using logic to defuse my undying struggle for my secreted emotions. Nobody was physic and could actually read, _read_ me like I usually-constantly, unmanageably, fretfully, grumpily- worry about. I don't even think the driver even cared about what color I chose, he was, clearly, more worried about what perpetual hell he would have to face trying to dry out a backseat if the balloons just so happened burst. Which was, undeniable, understandable. The vehicle is assigned to his person-as though they have to sign a contract of keeping in perfect condition, or consequence will be neck wrenching-and it is like babysitting.

Though, there's a chance, my theatrical balance might be out of perspective, but it couldn't be too horribly so. Because, knowing my allies-who feel they should justify themselves to be my savior and protect me from any all warfare whether it be emotional or physically straining-they've always looked out (quite intently) for my best interest but have never interrogated me about the deep consideration I have by sparing other peoples worries. I've made my own personal rehab in the caverns in my mind- that I tend to visit at times- and I'll be the first to admit to the many different "ME's" who sit in that room during our sessions that I can get a little paranoid at times trying to make sure nobody troubles themselves about me.

'Don't worry guys, everything's fine, go-what the devil do men do these days-hit on some girls!' I tell my fellow ranking subordinates.

They'd just laugh and pat me on my hair, which, I've grown to hate. Because I would have no earthly idea when the last time my fellows have wash their hands. Then I'll have a mental panic attack about 'pee lice' or 'penis lice' (if such a horrid thing existed, which was impossible...but not completely impossible either) because-I know deep down in my everlasting fretting soul- that they don't always wash their hands after they relieve themselves.

The wind latches on to my thoughts and my hair. I see my tombstone coming up, which isn't hard to spot out. It had a big teddy bear (which I got) some old flowers from past visitation, (which I'm sure half were mine and moms) and some other trinkets (which more than 90% are mine, I know). When I reach it I bow to the ones on either side of mine. "Good day fellas how are you?" I beam and gently descent to my knees setting my case and my six balloons on either side of me.

Here I am again, sitting in this spot, at the same place. I wish all the time I didn't have a reason to come to this place. But, the fates had something different in their tarot of cards. I'm not the one to follow trends by example of others, but its hard to not get a bit sad when you can walk on the terrain of Hades surface form of underground hell.

I shake my head, maybe I need to stop being so selfish. I might be missing a part of my life but I still have my other half of it-at home resting up a because she is a bit ill-which is more than what many of associates ever had

I glance at the name that I've read so many, _many_ times

_Maes Hughes_

"Hey, papa. Your Princess is here to wish you Happy Birthday. "I take my gloved hand and rub under my nose and grin. "You old fart"

* * *

><p>This story has been posted before..but it only stayed up for like five hours. I decided to take it down for some technical revision and decided to break it into two chapters because, in general, its pretty long. Chapter 2 will be posted (no I'm not going to say because of reviews) once revision is done, which it will be a couple of days.<p>

I say a couple because I have to take my mom for her chemo therapy sessions. And it seems I don't have enough time for myself anymore. Aw well, Que sera sera :D


End file.
